


Hound and Nag

by rthstewart



Series: The Stone Gryphon [8]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Multi, Spare Oom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 18:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/pseuds/rthstewart
Summary: Helen learns about Rat and Crow and gets another visitor (or two) from Narnia.





	Hound and Nag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RuanChunXian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuanChunXian/gifts), [autumnia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnia/gifts), [Syrena_of_the_lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/gifts), [spikenard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Black, White, and the Gray Wolf In Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553971) by [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/pseuds/rthstewart). 

> For all the readers who asked for a follow-on to _Black, White and the Gray Wolf In Between_ This new story, like _Black, White and the Gray Wolf In Between_ is part a new book in the Stone Gryphon series, _Heart and Crow Make The Peace_ which is intended to tell of Lucy and Edmund's experiences in the war and will conclude the war years of Stone Gryphon from 1942-1945.

Having Lucy at home was wonderful. It was also exasperating. Her daughter was marvelous helping Beatrice with little Margaret and she willingly took up tasks in both households. Lucy did not especially enjoy it and was not enormously skilled at it, but she willingly shouldered groceries, queuing, cleaning, cooking, and laundry.

Lucy being about more did mean Helen’s own blushing activities with Beatrice occurred only when Lucy’s work took her away for the night or weekend.

There was also the matter of what, exactly, Lucy would do apart from agitate and attend meetings. Nor was she old enough, technically, to avoid compulsory education. Though, as age limits did not seem to apply to her older children, Helen saw no point in trying to hold Lucy to them.

“I’m not quite thirty, I think,” Lucy had said with a shrug. “And I’ve got that problem in hand.”

This was evidently in reference to asking forgiveness rather than permission, and so Helen did not delve any further. If the High King of Narnia – _oh Peter, of course you are _– couldn’t stop Lucy, her mother certainly would not be able to. Susan had finagled at least two sets of fake papers; Lucy could probably find an identity card that put her at 16 rather than 13.

Lucy would do things, and conform her behavior, in her own way and in her own time. If she was ever to see the value of education, it would be because she recognized she needed it to accomplish something she desperately wanted.

It was in this way that Helen was able to persuade Lucy that she really did need to improve her spelling if she wanted to be a credible advocate for Greek famine relief and more than rudimentary maths for fundraising. Professor Kirke agreed to let her stay with him one week a month for tutoring, and whenever it coincided with the Oxford Famine Relief Committee meetings.

As Briony had intimated, Lucy would find a way. So it was one evening that Helen came home and found her at the sewing machine attempting to alter a Red Cross volunteer uniform.

“I always preferred swords and knives to needles,” Lucy said, hopelessly tangled in thread and ripping out a mangled seam. “We had to mend our own things when we were on the road. Edmund and Peter were both better at it than I am. I’d clean Peter’s sword and he’d do my sewing.”

“I noticed that Peter’s stitching is nearly as neat as a tailor’s,” Helen replied. “What sort of road?”

“Muddy ones. As Briony told you, we had Giants on the Northern border and had to defend our territory against them at least once a year. We had problems away south, too, from Calormen. And the usual bandits, brigands, pirates, and such. And some journeys were much further. We should tell you the story some time of how Susan conquered the Lone Islands without drawing a single arrow or sword.”

A frown crossed her face. “Or maybe not.” She tried biting down on a piece of thread and ended up spitting pieces of it out.

Lucy’s stories of Narnia were all like this – they came in fits and starts. Helen had seen that, like Edmund, Lucy was very focused on finding her place here, in this world. The Red Cross was a very logical place for Queen Lucy the Valiant to begin her new campaign in England.

The uneven pace of the storytelling did mean she was constantly tamping down her own raging curiosity. However, Helen was very mindful of her children’s losses. The War had been a study in all the many ways people managed the death of loved ones. She’d mourned John's philandering and her failing marriage through rage and candidly knew that it was terror, constant deprivation, and the loss of their husbands that had drawn her to Beatrice. As wonderful as Narnia had been, it was also surely deeply fraught and very personal; Helen would not raise the subject of her daughter’s husband, or whether she had been a mother, until Lucy herself did.

“Why don’t you make supper, Lucy, and I’ll finish this up for you.”

Lucy couldn’t bounce up as she normally did for she had to cut away the bonds that had tied her to the sewing machine. A pin stuck in her foot which was, of course, bare. Lucy plucked it out without even a wince. “I queued for some sausage today! I’ll fry that up and open a can of something.”

As she delicately pulled out all of Lucy’s misguided efforts and began anew, Helen had a vague sense of foreboding. Or familiarity. The night she’d been taking in suits for Edmund before his journey to America, her son had made dinner and then dropped the figurative bomb of Narnia upon her.

“Should I know about anything?” she called out to thin air. “Is anyone skulking about?”

_We’re all mad here._

No Wolves or cats or Cats appeared.

The scent of sausage a minute from burning brought her downstairs.

The table was set, a little haphazardly, but Helen hadn’t had to do it herself, so it was perfect. The sausages were quite crisp but not raw inside, and Lucy had dressed the tinned peas with a little grated carrot. “It looks wonderful, darling, thank you.”

They sorted through the post and bills as they ate. There was another, long letter from Edmund and a very short note from Peter saying the incident involving the soap suds was nothing to be concerned about and that he’d been put on the Company’s running team. Peter was a terrible correspondent and she really wanted to know about boats.

“I do hope he wasn’t wasting soap,” Helen said. It had become very hard to come by and she was relying upon Ruby Smith for re-supply from the American PX. “Have you written Edmund yet?” She had responded to his last letter, telling Edmund that Lucy had left school and asking about the Supreme Court argument and how his language lessons were progressing. Edmund had vowed to learn German _and_ Russian whilst at the Embassy.

Lucy shook her head. “It’s difficult because I can’t say anything about Briony, of course, or about how you know so much more about Narnia and that’s why you didn’t make a fuss when I left school.”

“He said that I should not mention Narnia in my letters at all. He was quite adamant about it. But I’m sure we could be vague enough that the censors wouldn’t think we were all cracked if we told him about Briony coming to see me and why.”

Lucy’s knife fell to the table with a clatter. “Oh goodness, no, Mum, you mustn’t!”

“That’s a vehement reaction, dear.”

“No, it isn’t! Oh!”

Lucy’s eyes grew very wide and she clapped her hands over her mouth. The feeling of unease from earlier returned. “Lucy…”

Her daughter dropped her hands in exaggerated surrender. “You don’t know, do you? About what happened last year, over the summer?”

“A great deal happened last summer. Can you be more specific?”

“All that spy work that Susan was doing.”

Helen let out a most irritated humph. _Honestly._ Susan had been far too loose lipped about her work at the Embassy.

“Which you should know nothing about and I will not discuss with you and you certainly _must not_ reveal to anyone. Are we clear?”

It was unaccustomed but Lucy nodded obediently. “Yes, Mum.”

“Regardless, I fail to see what Susan’s work has to do with discreetly writing about Narnia to Edmund now.”

“Well, actually…” Lucy drew the words out very long and her eyes darted about, as if trying to find an escape.

_Blast._ The correspondence between Susan and Edmund last summer had been _voluminous_. Just what had her exhaustingly clever adult children gotten themselves into?

“What did Susan do, Lucy?”

“Well…”

“Yes?”

“Susan wrote to Edmund about everything that happened using a Narnia story as a sort of code.”

Helen closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Of course they did. Crimes committed against Americans on American soil. The murder of Guy Hill. Stealing secret plans from the briefcase of the Vice President of the United States. Creating a fake map and planting it in a safe house on the Chesapeake. Susan sending Tebbitt to seduce both a Congresswoman in exchange for Sherman tanks _and_ a newspaper woman for blackmail material that could sway the next Presidential election. All of which she knew of because she had typed his Lordship’s memoranda.

“And then the gig was up when Sallowpad found out.”

Helen opened her eyes and stared at her daughter. She had heard that name before. “Who is?”

“In Narnia he was Chief of the Murder. But in the code he was who Susan was working for.”

“Colonel Walker-Smythe,” Helen replied wearily. “And he caught them?”

Lucy nodded. “Shortly before you left Washington. I understand the Colonel was very impressed that Susan and Edmund had fooled the censors for so long. It’s why he was so eager for Susan and Edmund to…”

Helen held out her hand. “Stop right there Lucy. Not another word. Our family is very fortunate we were not all imprisoned for violating the Official Secrets Act!”

“I suppose.” Lucy speared her sausage. “I’ve never paid much attention to Rat and Crow. That was always Susan and Edmund.”

_Of course it was. _

* * *

The tenor of Edmund’s letters changed over the weeks. He discussed his languages. He attended arguments at the Supreme Court. There was a trip to New York to see his Father. There were occasional forays to smoky men’s clubs with other “chaps” but no descriptions of the dancing, music and parties as Susan had enjoyed and worked at. He did mention Agnes Hill, one of Susan’s friends. He complained about the tree pollen.

He did not mention his work at all, except to occasionally allude to the experience being similar to what he had done before. She could guess what he was working on based upon her own typing for the Committee. Walker-Smythe was coordinating agents in Greece for Operation Barclay for Colonel Dudley Clarke and there was the whole Mincemeat nonsense that had the Committee in fits.

Helen could not precisely put her finger on it but something seemed amiss in the correspondence that had never been so regular from him before. She was doing the best she could but Edmund had always been very reserved and trying to read between his lines was difficult when the lines were, metaphorically, very, very narrow.

_Dear Edmund,_

_I am sorry to hear that you are still confusing German and Russian in your sleep. I did not know that Jehovah's Witnesses were so very passionate about their pamphleteering. I did not quite follow your argument about the American Constitution and the English Bill of Rights. If American protection is so broad, how do they…_

She started at the sound of a loud crash, metal on metal, and a voice shouting, “Zardeenah’s three tits!”

Helen leaped out of her seat at the dining room table and spun around.

A woman was standing in the drawing room, rigid with fury. An African? No, Caribbean? Her look was similar to Jill Pole’s Anglo-Jamaican skin colour but the woman’s hair was long and plaited in a tidy braid with a very large, green, neatly-tied bow. She was wearing simple trousers and a too-large shirt, both of a sort of homespun one did not buy at any store Helen knew of.

Following the direction of the woman’s stare, Helen could see the cause of the crash. A heavy, large brass candlestick had evidently been flung at the drawing room floor lamp. Both were on the floor. She hoped the lamp wasn’t damaged. They were hard to replace.

“Hello? Are you from Narnia?”

The woman turned from studying the results of her evident temper. “Yes.”

It was peculiar. She didn’t meet Helen’s eye, but focused over her shoulder in a way that made Helen want to turn around and wonder what was behind her.

The woman walked over to her destructive handiwork and tried to right the lamp but got the shade confused with the base. “I’ll do that,” Helen said, and quickly righted it.

“I apologize. I was very angry and getting ready to throw it when I arrived here and it just flew out of my hands.”

As the woman picked up the candlestick, Helen realized who it must be.

“You’re Banker Morgan.”

Morgan nodded but, again, her eyes fixed somewhere else.

“You were married to Edmund.”

She nodded again. “You’re Helen? Harold’s mother?”

“I’m Helen, yes, but Harold is my brother-in-law, Edmund’s uncle.”

“I meant Edmund. I called him Harold a lot. He’s not here?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Morgan muttered something under her breath about _Tash_ and _balls_ and Helen suspected it was another epithet. Like Briony, she focused on the picture on the mantle. Tucking the candlestick under her arm, she looked at it more closely.

In a manner that seemed almost abrupt, she blurted, “How much time has passed since Briony came?”

“About a month.”

“So he’s what? Fourteen?”

“Fifteen, pretending to be eighteen at the moment, but really about thirty, I should think. Which would be a mite awkward for both of you right now.”

It was something she’d been thinking about, given the ages and time differences. It had difficult implications she was very glad to not have to address.

Morgan scowled and nodded again. “Very. Probably better he isn’t here.”

There was something decidedly odd about Morgan. She certainly did not have the calm certitude Briony did. She tripped on the drawing room rug. Like Briony she was drawn to the burning lamp in the dining room but went further and gingerly probed it with a finger. “You get light and heat from it? How does that work?”

“It’s called electricity. It’s made elsewhere and travels in copper wires to do things like light that lamp.”

“Electricity.” Morgan repeated the word very precisely. Helen could see she was considering the concept in a very deliberate way. “Is it similar to how waves move in a pond if you drop a rock in it? Or how lightning can be felt through the ground if it strikes close by?”

“That’s it exactly. Lightning _is_ electricity. It travels from the sky to the earth.”

“So, if you could get lightning in a copper wire it could travel to a glass object and make light?”

“Lightning is too powerful to be harnessed that way, but yes, that’s the correct idea.”

Morgan set her candlestick on the dining room table. “You are being very nice. I’m very nervous about this. And I’m especially not good with new people, at first. I thought maybe it would stop after I died, but that didn’t happen.” From her pocket, she drew out a square of yellowed, old fashioned-looking paper, with bold, inked letters neatly printed. “This was Aidan’s idea, to share with humans I meet for the first time.”

Helen read it:

  * I usually cannot look you in the eye. I don’t do it on purpose. My eyes don’t let me.
  * Please do not interrupt me. Sometimes it take me a little longer to find words.
  * Sometimes I blurt things that sound strange. If you can be patient, it usually becomes clear why I said it.
  * I’m sorry if it seems like I’m rude. I try very hard to not be but I don’t hear conversations the way you do.
  * I’m apt to say the wrong things and when I get nervous about saying the wrong thing, it all gets worse.
  * I’m very good at numbers.
  * I will try very hard to be a good listener.

“This seems very useful, and very thoughtful of Aidan to have devised it.” Lucy’s husband rose even further in her estimation.

Morgan and her list of conversation difficulties were reminiscent of a tutor Helen had known at college, and a woman in the typing pool. She handed the paper back and Morgan carefully returned the square to her pocket.

“I am being very impolite and I apologize. It’s really a pleasure to meet you, Morgan, and I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”

Helen held out her hand. Morgan looked delighted to shake it. “You do handshakes here! We do where I am from, too. It’s very unusual for Narnians. Though, of course, most of them don’t have hands.”

Morgan had a strong, confident shake. Her hands were covered with ink stains. “And it’s nice to meet you, too. I’ve been very curious about Harold’s, I mean Edmund’s, parents for a long time.”

“And I have been looking forward to meeting you. Would you like something to drink?”

“Coffee? I like coffee.”

“Do you? I noticed that Edmund knew how to make very good coffee. Did he learn it from you?”

“The cooks at Linch House taught him when he clerked for me over Conclave. Bankers drinks a lot of coffee.”

Helen now knew that she just had to let this flood of information flow by and pick out one bit of flotsam at a time.

“Briony said you are a banker?”

“Yes. Do you know what that is?”

Helen gestured her to the kitchen, watching how Morgan bumped into and nearly knocked over a dining room chair and had difficulty with the swinging door. She was very awkward on her feet.

“I don’t know if a banker is the same but here we have large banks that hold peoples’ savings. Bankers invest and protect that money, provide financial and investment advice to customers, and lend money.”

“It’s similar, then. A lot of Narnians thought it meant ‘baker,’ and I never did like the implication you could eat money.”

Helen laughed. “Briony was quite flummoxed about why Lucy would have needed money. I imagine if you are a wolf you wouldn’t require it at all.”

Morgan wriggled her inky fingers. “And no way to carry or handle it, either. It’s amazing how many things aren’t relevant when most of your population doesn’t have hands.”

Like Briony, Morgan was very interested in the hob and the sink. More than marveling at their novelty, though, Morgan was fascinated by the mechanics of it all. As with electricity to a bulb, she wondered how gas could be controlled to create a regulated flame and where pipes went that brought fresh water to a single home.

She inspected the pantry and was fascinated by the cans and their labels. “So putting peas in tin keeps them from spoiling? It’s like salting, curing, or pickling, I suppose. Though maybe more like preserving fruit with sugar to make jam. If you don’t do preserving right, it all goes bad and can make you very sick.”

As the coffee brewed, Helen showed Morgan a ration booklet, thinking it might interest a banker. “Because of the War, food and clothing and many other things are rationed. We only get a certain allotment per person every week or month for things like bacon, butter, cheese, milk, sugar, and eggs. With clothing, we get a number of coupons per year, which keeps going down and is very difficult with growing children, so you just have to make do and plan ahead.”

“Rationing ensures equitable distribution and no one starves but everyone endures lean times.” Morgan flipped through the coupon book. “Why is food so scarce?”

“England is an island and the closest nations we used to import food from are occupied by the enemy. We can get food from further away but there are…” Helen decided to not explain submarines, “enemy ships that keep the food from getting to us. It’s a strategy of the Nazis to try to starve us.”

“So prices are high and I don’t imagine wages have kept pace. Tell me about your currency and what you can buy for it.”

Morgan quizzed her on prices of common goods, an egg, a loaf of bread, a glass of beer, and a meal at an inn. As Morgan didn’t know what an ounce was, Helen demonstrated by showing her what 2 ounces of butter looked like. Then, she asked to see coins and banknotes.

“And bread costs four pence for a loaf about how big?” Helen showed her the wholemeal national loaf in the cupboard. “I’ve found that bread is a good measure of value in an economy, human economy that is.” She muttered something about crescents and trees, which Helen presumed was Narnian currency. “And 240 pence in a pound. How odd. I’m surprised it’s not in tens and hundreds – we have five fingers, not six.”

As Helen was pouring the coffee, Morgan suddenly blurted out, “Don’t fill my cup too high. I’ll spill it.”

“Of course. I can offer you milk and sugar.”

Morgan smiled. “They call that, _taking your cup Royal_, in Narnia, after the Four. But I drink it straight.” Showing she was indeed attending and understanding, she added, “And that’s very generous of you to offer rationed goods. I wouldn't dream of taking something that’s so restricted but thank you very much for offering it.”

“Why don’t I carry your cup into the dining room for you and we can sit there.”

Given Briony’s abrupt departure, Helen wasn’t too eager to figure out why Morgan has been sent. Once they resolved whatever the issue was, she would be pulled away. Morgan was very different from Briony and she really wanted to get to know her _daughter-in-law_.

Helen set their cups down and Morgan carefully sat across from her. She made a to-do of examining and fiddling with the cup. With two hands, she carefully lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip.

“Briony thought our water tasted unclean.”

“If you can taste the water in coffee, you aren’t making it right.” She took another sip and the cup sloshed a little as she set it down again.

“Does it taste differently?”

“It tastes more like Archen coffee, which is weaker. Lone Island and Calormene coffee are roasted longer, sometimes, almost burnt. It’s bitter and definitely an acquired taste.”

Morgan’s eyes traveled about the room, taking in the letters on the table, the blackout shades, the electric lamp, and then focused again on the coffee cup.

Mindful of Morgan’s communicative difficulties, Helen decided to try direct questions. “How did you and Edmund meet?”

“It was because of his contracting draftsmanship.”

The statement was so peculiar and Morgan spoke it so flatly, Helen almost started laughing. But her daughter-in-law was quite serious.

“Could you explain that?”

Morgan’s eyes wandered again and settled on the letter on the dining room table. Her face softened.

_She recognizes her husband’s handwriting._

“I was advising clients and these courtship contracts started coming from Narnia. They were a little rough, not as tight as I would have drafted them, but I’d been trained to that work by the very best in the Known Lands and whoever was drafting these contracts hadn’t been. And they were brilliant, really. And wry and so clever. There was such wit and intelligence behind them. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Fell in love with them, I suppose, which would have been really awkward if it had turned out that a Rabbit or a Minotaur had been the principal draftsman. But it was Harold.”

So Morgan had fallen in love with Edmund from afar because she had seen his intelligence. No eyes across a ballroom, love at first sight, or bumping into a stranger in a crowded station. Set out in this way, Helen could not say she was surprised. Even in this short time, it was plain that Morgan had the same wide-ranging curiosity and piercing intellect that Edmund did. Her daughter-in-law was a very intelligent woman.

“Why do you think my son fell in love with you?”

“At first, it was just convenient and flattering that I had pursued him and wasn’t interested in the High King or Queen Susan.”

She managed to not gasp or flinch at the “_or Susan_.” Before Helen could even stammer some bland remark, Morgan added, “And there was the regular sex. That was important, too.”

Helen almost spit out her coffee. So no _waiting until marriage_ which would have made her the greatest hypocrite of all time to condemn but also not something to discuss, _ever_. Everyone assumed Peter was a honeymoon baby and early, just as everyone always said, about _everyone_ as a way to politely ignore the true state of affairs. England was full of early, honeymoon children. “Yes, uhmm, but_ after_? Beyond that?”

Morgan stared at Edmund’s letter and was quiet for a very long time. Helen was grateful for the reprieve.

She began again, with no warning. “It started as a joke, but it really wasn’t. I always told him that I chose him, that I found him, no one else. That was important. And loyalty. Harold doesn’t give his trust easily but I’m a Linch and loyalty once given is as binding as the strongest contract. He trusted me, the way he trusted his Guard, and his brother and sisters.”

Morgan picked up her coffee and took another deep sip. “And Aslan,” she finished, with a deep scowl. "He trusts Aslan, which I never understood.”

Thinking to what Briony had said, Helen asked, “Were you throwing the candlestick at Aslan when you were sent here?”

Morgan positively beamed. “I have terrible aim but it’s the point of it. The Narnians usually say it’s because he’s not a Tame Lion, but that explains nothing of his inexplicable behavior. Except that since he is a lion, I don’t think he understands humans well at all. He has his own agenda. And lions don’t bond for life. I don’t think he understands the pain he causes humans, and may not even care." 

“That is a fierce judgement.”

“Yes, it is. But what he did to Narnia, to me, to Aidan, to all of us left behind, by taking the Four as he did? I’ve still not forgiven him for it. It was a terrible burden and traumatic.”

“I’ve not decided how to think on it, actually. One the one hand, I’m furious that they were taken away from those who loved them so well. On the other, Aslan took them away as children and they returned to me as adults and I missed over fifteen years of their lives.” Given their maturity and the odd timing, Helen thought 15 years in Narnia was likely much longer here. “But at least they did come back.”

“One of us had to lose them,” Morgan said. “There was going to be loss no matter which way it went.”

She had been staring at Edmund's letter and finally drew it closer and ran an ink-stained finger over it. “This ink is remarkable. It’s so clean and clear. Harold brewed ink for me as a courting gift. It was washable and erasable.”

“What a thoughtful gift. I’ll send you back with a …”

An thunderous roar shook the house. Helen stifled a scream.

“Jalur! What are you doing here?”

“Banker Morgan?” The voice was large, deep, terrifying, and belonged to an _enormous_ tiger. He could barely squeeze into the first floor of the house.

Helen was frozen to her chair.

The tiger turned slowly about, his tail lashing against the walls. “I was bored. And worried you might be eaten.”

“I’m dead, Jalur. It wouldn’t matter if I am.”

“But it would hurt.”

Helen could hear his deep sniffing and then the tiger’s whiskers sagged and his tail drooped. “My King is not here.”

“No,” Helen managed to squeak out. “Edmund is away. Lucy is living here but gone for the weekend.”

The tiger slowly blinked. Like Morgan, he did not look directly at her.

“Be polite,” Morgan scolded. “This is Helen.”

The tiger slowly lowered his head.

“I am honoured to meet you, Helen, Mother of the Four. I am Sir Jalur, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table. I am Royal Guard to King Edmund the Just, Wandbreaker, Duke of the Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, and Knight of the Noble Order of the Table.”

“And not Father, Brother, or Peter,” Morgan added, which was utterly confounding.

“I am pleased to meet you, Sir Jalur,” Helen managed, barely. And she’d only just gotten the wolf hair out of the carpets. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“Do you have otter?”

“No. I can offer you Spam.”

“Does Spam contain otter?”

“No.” Helen wasn’t sure exactly what was in Spam, but it surely did not have otter. Whale meat was disgusting.

“No thank you.” Jalur raised his nose and sniffed again. “Where are my King’s rooms?”

Helen pointed. “Upstairs.” She started to rise from her chair but Morgan waved her back down. “He can find them, just by smell.”

_Rooms._ They had lived _in a Palace._ Helen didn’t think Jalur would fit in the tiny bedroom Peter and Edmund shared.

Jalur had to tuck his tail in and duck his head to squeeze his way up the staircase. The house groaned under his weight.

“He’s so _big_,” Helen whispered.

“The largest Great Cat in Narnia, save Aslan,” Morgan replied. “And that’s the most I’ve heard him speak in years.”

Morgan was studying Edmund’s letter and frowning.

“Is something wrong?”

“It just doesn’t sound like him,” Morgan replied. “Except the pollen. Even there….” She trailed off, still reading, and not asking for any explanation for the terms and places described and what were surely unfamiliar words. Morgan turned the letter over, and read it again.

“I thought the same thing, Morgan, but could not identify why I felt unsettled.”

“He’s lonely.”

_Yes, of course._

“And there _is_ something bothering him but he doesn’t want to put it in writing. I could write to him.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Morgan,” Helen replied gently. “We’re at war. All our letters are being read by censors.” And there was this nonsense with the Narnia allegory Susan and Edmund has used all last summer. _Honestly, they were incorrigible._ “The censors would think we were quite mad if we mentioned Narnia in a letter to him. Or, they would think we might be using it as a code to exchange war secrets.”

She thought that might upset Morgan, but her daughter-in-law nodded. “Yes, I can see that. It's a sensible precaution. It’s also easily solvable. We can use Rat and Crow. It will take longer but you can bury the words in the regular letter. He’ll pick it up.”

“Rat and Crow?” Helen repeated. Lucy had used the term to refer to spying and espionage.

“It’s a code that Harold and Queen Susan developed. Ordinary words that mean something entirely different. It’s not easy to break so long as you don’t repeat the same words in a series of intercepted communications. I’ll teach it to you. Unless…”

“Yes?”

“Lucy and the High King could never learn it.”

“I’m quite capable of mastering a code, Morgan. If they are ordinary words, how will Edmund know?”

“Just use the word _hound_. He’ll know that was me.”

“You all had your own word-symbol?”

Morgan nodded. “I was Hound. Harold was Crow. Lucy was Heart.”

“Of course she was.”

“Queen Susan was Rat. The High King was Sword.” Morgan dropped her voice. “And Jalur was Nag.”

“I heard that.”

There were loud thumps and shuffling upstairs and then steps so heavy they made the stairs groan.

Jalur came downstairs carrying a pillow in his mouth. The tiger squeezed himself into the drawing room, dropped the now soggy pillow on the floor and lay down, resting his enormous head on top of it. The tiger closed his eyes and let out a contented rumble that sounded like a lorry with a bad engine on a bomb-pocked street. Helen realized Jalur had found and was now trying to rest on Edmund’s own pillow.

“Let’s get started.” Morgan pushed a fresh piece of stationery across the table into her hands. "I'll teach you the code and then you can use it after I have to leave."

* * *

_Dear Edmund,_

_I am sorry to hear that you are still confusing German and Russian in your sleep. I did not know that Jehovah's Witnesses were so very passionate about their pamphleteering. I did not quite follow your argument about the American Constitution and the English Bill of Rights. If American protection is so broad, how do they shield official secrets?_

_I am picking up this letter again after a long pause. A lovely Hound stopped by for a visit to our rubbish bin. I am sure you remember her. She had a green collar and you were always her favorite. I think she misses you especially and thought you might be lonely. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get her out of the bin before she left all sorts of gifts for our local rats and black birds. It was quite an adventure. I’m sure you understand. _

_Also, I am a dreadful Nag, but I’m afraid your favorite pillow is gone for good. I know I’ve been nagging about replacing it but it smelled and so it went out to the bin when the Hound left. I also picked up a lovely brass candlestick that should do very well as a cudgel should I wish to chase a Cat away with it…_

* * *

For all the readers who, after reading Black, White, and the Gray Wolf In Between, wanted more Narnia in Spare Oom.

Helen's affair with Beatrice and the revelation of Peter's conception prior to marriage are both derived from the Little Kinsey report, a survey of the sexual histories of over 2,000 English men and women in 1948-1949. The survey is part of the National Observation Archive at the University of Sussex. 


End file.
